I’m working on a book project that requires a trip back to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. (More about the project in future posts.) Yesterday, I called to make a room reservation at an Amish farm that rents rooms to “Englishers.” (That’s Amish vocabulary for anyone who is not Amish.)
A woman named Sadie answered the phone, a trace of a German accent in her voice. After Sadie wrote down the dates of my visit, I asked her how much money I should send to reserve the room.
“Vell,” she said. “Ve are too busy on da farm to make da breakfast. So, yust send me a donation.”
Nonplussed, I had absolutely no idea how much to send, so I wrote out a check for the amount I was spending at an airport hotel the night before. As I sealed that envelope to Sadie and stuck a stamp on it, I couldn’t remember ever feeling so good about writing someone a check.